The Road to Hell
by JazzylovesTransformers
Summary: It is paved by lies, murder and, most of all, insanity. A newly-fledged psychiatrist must find a way to push through the raging storm of madness that is Arkham Asylum and, somehow, emerge unscathed. Scarecrow/OC/Joker
1. Chapter 1

I was three year olds when I first saw someone die.

I don't remember much of it, besides the occasional glimpse in a flashback. Mostly, I remember their panicked voices, the gunshot, and sitting there for what felt like an eternity, with nobody coming in to help. In the neighbourhood I had lived in, it wasn't uncommon for gunshots to occur during the night, and nobody had thought much of it until they realised that neither parents had shown up at work for at least two days. I remember the men knocking on the door. I remember them storming the place, only to find nothing but me sobbing and clutching on to my unresponsive parents, who I claimed "wouldn't wake up." I think I knew they were hurt, knew _something _was wrong, but my 3-year-old mind couldn't absorb the full impact of what had happened that day. Death was not a concept I had been familiar with.

I also remember, most prominently probably, the young and kindly cop who had scooped me up in his arms and promised me that everything would be alright. This same cop and his wife would take pity on me in the week to come, and agree to adopt me into their family despite their young age; Jim Gordon, or "dad" as he often implored me to call him. Over the next few years, I learned to love them as my own.

I was a bit of a handful for the unfortunate Gordon family... at first, at least. I went through numerous councilling sessions as the years wore on, and had met the asylum owner Mr. Arkham too many times to count. Whilst he was no real psychiatrist, he had gotten along with me famously, despite my new parents' obvious suspicion of him. Every night after he'd visited, Jim and Barbara would always quiz me over what he'd spoken to me about. Years later, I would realise why: he'd been grooming me to join his little fleet of psychiatrists at Arkham. Also years later, I would discover it worked. My interest in psychology and criminology steadily grew over the years, so much so that I eventually settled on it as a choice of occupation, much to my parents' displeasure.

Nowadays, 19 years onwards, I was still living in Gotham and in close connection to my family. Mr. Arkham's ploys, if that was what you wanted to call it, had been a success. I had recently been employed in Arkham Asylum, a place that was quickly running out of people to work for it with the amount of craziness that was going on today. The last little round with the Joker had definitely had a lot of people resigning, and I'd been... struggling in terms of getting a job. The offer from Mr. Arkham to work at his asylum had been a bit too well-timed. It'd resulted in me finally moving out from my the Gordon's and renting my own apartment in the _Narrows. _I knew it was dangerous, living in such a shady part of town, but it was within easy access of my new job and helped save me money on petrol and such. Can't say mum and dad were as agreeing.

First day on the job.

As stated beforehand, Arkham Asylum has been fast running out of people to work for it, and it showed. Upon entering the building for the first time ever, I realised just how... _empty_ it was. One measly receptionist sat at the desk in the entrance, a phone pressed to her ear as she talked to the person on the other line, desperately trying to file through a stack of folders at the same time. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, lips were pursed together, and she practically oozed the aura of somebody you simply did _not_ want to cross. I approached her cautiously, not wanting to get my head snapped off on the first day, as ridiculous as that may sound.

"Excuse me?" I asked, unable to keep the nervous tone out of my voice.

Her head snapped up, grey hawk-like fixing themselves on me with a peircing look. I fought the urge to flinch away from the gaze, instead schooling my expression into one of more control; the kind I would be expected to present the patients I was treating with. If she noticed anything wrong, she didn't show or address it, instead ending her phone call and turning to look at me. My own blank expression seemed to pale in comparison to her stony, expressionless face, giving me the impression that she'd either: a) worked as a psychiatrist here before, or; b) she'd spent too much time in this place, and even if you weren't a psychiatrist you still needed to be fairly controlled and disciplined around the inmates. I liked the sound of the former better.

"Visiting hours aren't until ten," she told me firmly, lips still pursed, giving me a disapproving look over the top of her glasses.

"Um... I'm not here to visit, ma'am," I told her, the formal title slipping out of my mouth before I could stop it. "I'm the new psychiatrist."

She didn't say anything, not at first anyway. Instead she regarded me with an unreadable look, one that made me question whatever small shred of authority I might have over her. My immediate reaction would've been to look away and break eye contact, to submit in some sort of way, but I quickly caught myself. Working at Arkham Asylum, I would have no more room to try and get on everyone's good side. Whilst I had initially intended my thougher attitude to be aimed towards the inmates, it seemed that some- if not all- the employees would have to be treated in a similar manner. Her eyes narrowed when I refused to be the one to forfeit first, a small twitch at the corner of her lips being the only signal that she was displeased with me.

Yep. She's definitely been a psychiatrist here before. Either that, or all employers of Arkham Asylum had a ten foot pole shoved up their ass.

"Is that so?" she said, more of a statement than an actual question, and said so quietly I nearly missed it. "Aubree Labelle, 22 years of age, adopted daughter of Commissioner Gordon and his wife Barbara." She recited the facts so easily, not moving a muscle as she did so. Not even the twitch of a finger to help her check them off. I arched an eyebrow, not exactly sure how I should respond to that one, opting to say silent instead. At least she didn't bring up the fact that my middle name was a brand of car, which I tended to get a bit touchy about. Her gaze didn't waver once, and after a small pause she powered on. "Your office is on level 3, door C-225. These are the keys," she looked away now to fish around in a drawer, seemingly pulling out a key from nowhere and slapping it down on the desk, "and Mr. Arkham has the files of the patients you will be treating. His office is the one at the end of the hallway." She jerked her thumb in the direction at the door behind her.

"Erm, thanks," I said lamely, picking up the key and placing it in my pocket, before leaving to take the hallway to see Mr. Arkham.

I glanced over my shoulder to wish her a good day, but she wasn't looking at me any more. She was filing through stacks of paper again, phone already back in her hand and punching in numbers with her pinky. Going by the filthy look she shot me for loitering in her area as I watched her, I decided against speaking anyway, and hurriedly opened the door and pushed onwards into the hallway.

It was a long walk. The hallway was surrounded by closed doors and cupboards on all sides, leaving no room for windows, and the only source of light was the bright bulbs that shone overhead. It was also painfully empty, and I had a feeling that either those rooms were soundproof or there was just nobody in them, because the place seemed to be eerily quiet. Every so often somebody would step out of one of those closed doors and briskly walk past. A couple of them nodded to me, but for the most part I was completely ignored. My footsteps were the only source of noise as I strode onwards purposely, sights fixed on the room at the very end, willing what felt more like a walk down deathrow than a walk down a simply hallway to hurry up and end.

Despite my eagerness to quickly reach that single door that awaited me at the end, when I did finally get there I found myself hesitate. I knew Mr. Arkham very well, sure, but that was merely as a friend of sorts. As my employer? I couldn't help but think this might just be a bit too awkward. I felt more pressure to impress than I suspected I would feel from any other, and I knew for a fact that when I was trying to impress people, particularly people that mattered, I tended to make an idiot out of myself. Taking a deep breath to help steel my nerves, I pushed down the door handle and tried to pull it open (only to realise I had to push it), before swinging open the door and taking a careful step inside.

The first thing I noticed was that the room was surprisingly tidy. I'm not exactly sure what I had been expecting- perhaps folders scattered all over the desk in unorganized piles and stacked up from the floor to the roof- but whatever it was it wasn't this. The room was also larger than I had expected it to be, with a large desk that had comfortable-looking chairs in front of it and many filing cabinets taking up the majority of the room. A couch sat behind the door on an angle, facing towards the window where sunlight streamed in, lighting up the room like the fourth of July. A large, flatscreen TV hung up in top left hand corner of the room, turned off for the time being. Even with all this, there was still much room to spare, and I couldn't help but feel a tingle of envy.

Clearly this guy had too much money to throw around.

"Aubree!" Mr. Arkham boomed as he glanced up from his paperwork, opening his arms up in a friendly gesture. "Come, come. Sit down. I suppose Matilda sent you, did she? Very organized that lady. Very onto the ball. A bit uptight, unfortunately, but I suppose that's the price you have to pay for hard work. Haven't I already told you to take a seat?"

I offered a weak smile in return, shutting the door behind me and hurriedly accepting his invitation to sit down. As I did so, he put his paperwork to one side in an organized pile, before turning back to me with that friendly grin on his face. It did nothing to ease the pressure I was feeling to do well whilst I was working under him, but at least it calmed my jumpy nerves a little bit. I hadn't felt exactly right ever since I'd stepped into this place, which I've heard stories of happening to other people, too. There was something about Arkham Asylum and all the loonies it held within it that seemed to set the entire building on edge.

"Thank you," I said, doing my best to break the silence, keeping my tone civilised and polite.

Mr. Arkham merely laughed at me, not in a scathing way, but more in a way as if I had said something incredibly amusing. Though confused as to exactly what I'd done, I made a pathetic attempt to smile along anyway, feeling rather awkward as I sat there with absolutely no idea as to what I should be doing.

"Oh 'Bree," he chuckled once his laughter had finally dimmed down slightly. "There's no need to be so formal around me- not here. I thought we would've known one another better than that by now." His encouraging smile didn't do much to soothe my nerves this time, but I gave a slight nod to show I'd heard and acknowledged his message loud and clear. Out of sight, or so I hoped, I played with my fingers nervously. If he was pertubed by my lack of a response, he didn't show it, and instead began rummaging around in his desk for something. "You must understand how pleased I was when you accepted my job offer. Things in the asylum have been somewhat... _strained_ as of late. This whole Joker fiasco still have people a bit on edge, unfortunately."

I nodded obediently, watching as he pulled out a couple of folders which I figured would be my assignments. He laid them out on the desk infront of me, his smile fading to a more concentrated than happy one as he glanced at them, but the warmth seemed to return when he faced me again. Entwining his fingers together and laying them on the desk, he nodded to the folders, an indication to take them I was guessing. Carefully, I picked the top one up, opening it up and frowning at the contents within.

"Is that-?"

"It is," he answered simply, gaze intently focussed on my face.

"Are you sure I'm qualified for that?" I asked skeptically, closing the folder, not liking the way the picture's eyes seemed to track my every movement.

"Sweets, I reckon you're qualified for anything. This guy'll be a peice of cake!"

"Isn't he dangerous?" I continued to quiz with a small frown, still skeptical over his choice in patients. Perhaps Mr. Arkham's time with the crazies had had an effect on him in the years gone by.

"Dangerous? Pfft. Hardly," he snorted, shrugging it aside as if it were nothing. Upon seeing the look on my face had not changed, however, he pressed on, "He's nothing, hun. Trust me. Perhaps a little deranged and not right in the head, but there are people here a million times worse than him. A bit sadistic, maybe... we think. We're not actually too sure on that one. He's not very forthcoming with information if you get my meaning."

"Alright. If you're sure."

"Completely. Now, take a look at this one."

He slid another folder towards me, and I replaced it with the one in my hands. It was considerably lighter than the last one, looking as if it had nothing within it except a few scant pages. I gave Mr. Arkham a suspcious look, having not exactly liked the first one, and he returned it with one that prompted me to take a peek inside. Cautiously, as if the folder might actually bite, I opened it up... only to gape at the contents.

"Mr. Arkham I really must object-"

"It's ok, it's ok, Aubree!" he assured me, not looking the least be unnerved by my reaction, his stupid friendly smile still comfortably seated on his face. "I know the guy's a bit of a tough cookie to crack but I believe you have what it takes."

I wasn't so certain. Scowling, I placed the folder back down, and fixed Mr. Arkham with a hard look. My dad had warned me about him doing this: taking advantage of what he expected to be a submissive and compassionate nature. I was beginning to wonder if he really was a bit of a nut afterall, and if it was wrong to accept the job that my parents had both explicitly warned me about.

"I don't mean any disrespect, sir. But you're teaming me, a completely inexperienced and young psychiatrist, up with some of Gotham's most hardened criminals. Excuse me if I don't see the logic."

"Of course I understand you're unease, of course I do! But see, nobody else is able to take either of them at the moment, and I think you'll be just perfect for the job!" I opened my mouth to protest otherwise, but he quickly cut me off before I could get a word out. "Tell you what, I'll make you a deal, I shall. Since I'm such a kind and generous man, I am. I'll give you one week to get settled in and get used to the place with this guy," He pointed a finger down at the first folder I'd read, "And then you can get started on this one next! That way, you'll be all good and ready."

He was way too optimistic for my liking, possibly delusionally so. Not just in his tone, but his whole demeanor as well, and I was beginning to realise that arguing with him was becoming a lost cause. Giving up, I picked up the two files, deciding I was due for a date with my office. Might as well begin catching up on the patients instead of sitting around and trying to worm my way out of it. With a defeated sigh, I gave a nod to Mr. Arkham, before rising from my seat. Beggars weren't choosers, and I supposed I should just be thankful I got given this job in the first place.

"Thank you, sir," I said, although I wasn't particularly sure what I was thanking him for.

"Have fun, now!" he replied cheerfully, pulling his paperwork back to him.

I left the room, shutting the door softly behind me and wondering what on Earth I'd just gotten myself in to. A week didn't sound that long. As week didn't sound that long at all.

* * *

><p><strong>Well... tell me what you think, I suppose. You know when you have a story in your head for ages, and you just have to write it down? Yeah. That wasn't what this was. ;) This was more of a splitsecond thing I came up with when I saw Batman Begins on TV one night, and it lead to me rewatching The Dark Knight. I have a feeling this story's going to be one of those ones when I just make things up as I go along... hehe. Oh well, least it'll be interesting (for me, at least).<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

Room C-225 was nowhere near as elegant as I'd been hoping.

Compared to Dr. Arkham's extravagent slice of Paradise, my office looked as if it'd been drudged up from the darkest corners of Hell. Small, cramped and barely illuminated by a struggling lightbulb, I could already feel the beginnings of stir-crazy-tinged insanity tugging at the threads of my mind. The majority of the space was taken up by a vacant desk positioned in front of a lonely window, overlooking the bleak courtyard that lay at the center of the asylum and topped off with a decrepit chair that looked as if it might collapse should I dare to risk sitting on it. I cautiously approached the center of the room as the door swung shut behind me with an ominous creak, almost as if to emphasise the already depressing atmosphere.

_Might as well make a start, _I sighed reluctantly, carelessly tossing the files onto the desk and gingerly lowering myself into the offered seat. My hand reached for the thicker folder first, reasoning that I might as well begin with the lesser of two evils.

"Jonathan Crane," I announced, putting on a theatrical voice as if it would this less of a hell-ish task, "the nut who took over the nuthouse."

I confess, I may have made that last bit up.

It took me a solid two hours to sift through the large- yet somehow repetitive- amount of notes previous consultants had made on him. The majority of them highlighted his sarcastic nature and inability to answer even the most straightforward of questions, often replying with a mocking inquiry of his own. Not only did this attitude make it exceptionally difficult for me to identify any valid and useful observations concerning him, but also led to a considerable amount of complaints from my predecessors. There were multiple mentions of him being an "asshole," "arrogant," and that they would humbly invite him to "pull his head out of his buttocks." In a surprisingly short amount of time it became glaringly obvious that many former psychologists had quit his case out of sheer frustration and lack of progress.

About half an hour into my research I was already beginning to form a possible reason behind his frustrating behaviour: he'd _been _one of them. He knew their tricks. He knew what information was helpful, what was useless, and how to piss them off. Many of the psychologists appeared to have struggled with the fact that they had known and worked alongside this guy, and unfortunately he knew them, too. He knew their weak points. And he was more than happy to take advantage of this. I began to uncover accounts of him purposely bringing up touchy subjects, whether it be a former drug addiction, a mother's serious illness, even a recently deceased cat... if they were upset about it, Crane dragged it into the conversation.

Maybe being a fresh face had an advantage, after all.

One psychologist, Dr. Charles Cavendish, would often refer to him by two separate personas based on his behaviour; "Scarecrow" and "Jonathan." Cavendish seemed to be under the impression that he was a serious danger to everyone around him, and made several appeals to Amadeus Arkham to have him moved to the maximum security section. After each of these appeals were rejected based on the fact that Crane had never actually _harmed_ any of his attendants, a conveniently-timed incident report emerged of Dr. Cavendish being attacked by his former colleague. It was, according to Cavendish, "completely unjustified and an act of pure insanity." The report was treated with suspicion and no serious action seemed to have been taken.

There were occasional references to legitimate psychological disorders; mainly narcissism and multiple personality. But other than that, his file really just came across as a warning for future idiots who decided to take him on.

_Idiots like you, _a snide voice laughed.

With a roll of my eyes I brushed off my inner commentator, grabbing a blank piece of paper from one of the desk drawers and making some personal notes to myself. I began with specific questions that I wanted to ask him concerning his file, and ended with some potential follow-up questions on the off-chance that he might be feeling co-operative. Additionally I jotted down a checklist of narcissistic and multiple personality disorder traits in the corner of the page. It never hurt to be prepared.

I rearranged the file back into its original order, even taking care to perfectly clip his photo back into place. My fingers hesitated on the slick surface of the image, frowning at the indifferent face and eerie eyes that seemed to track every movement. How could one person have gone so wrong, I couldn't help but wonder. Had it been prolonged exposure to the asylum itself (which, to be perfectly honest, I couldn't blame him for)? Or had it been some prior issue, something extending back into his childhood... or maybe even his genetics? I made a mental note to check up on his parents' medical history, before reluctantly reaching for the next folder.

"Don't you look like a bundle of laughs," I grumbled to myself as I detached my next patient's smirking mugshot.

I put it to the side in an attempt to avoid creeping myself out, and began looking over the scant information that my predecessors had managed to collect. Unlike Crane's small list of diagnosed disorders and long list of complaints, this guy had quite the opposite. He'd been pegged as bipolar, schizophrenic, avoidant, psychopathic, histrionic... if there was a name for it, he supposedly had it. There also seemed to be an inconsistency amongst the reports on his behaviour; interactions with him appeared contradicting at best, with some psychologists referring to him as aggressive and sadistic, whereas others cited him as being intelligent and easily distracted, but ultimately passive. And then there was a claim that he was... misunderstood and endearing? I'd have to look more closely at that one later.

There didn't appear to be any rule or reason for his changing personalities, either, asides from gender. Males often received a cold, snarky, and overall contemptuous attitude from him, to the point where it seemed more like a competitive pissing contest than it did an actual therapy session. Females, on the other hand, tended to think he was apathetic and inappropriate or confident yet delusional. I decided to note down a possibly distrust towards male figures, but also added that it may be due to different approaches taken by the genders- therefore making the patient's reaction behaviour-based as opposed to gender-based. Which ultimately told me absolutely nothing about him and didn't calm my nerves in the slightest. God damnit.

There was one thing that _did _remain consistent, though: all of the psychologists- whether male or female- brought up a predator-prey feeling when placed in the same room as him.

Lucky. Me.

I returned to the final section of notes on him, where a seemingly sympathetic air seemed to accompany what little relevant information was actually given. The psychologist in question referred to him as a "tortured, misunderstood creature trapped by the genius of his own mind" and even started discussing the way his voice was "alluring and enlightening to the heart and soul." Though not entirely sure what to make of this discovery as of yet, I decided to put it aside for later analysis... and perhaps as something to quiz Dr. Arkham over when I next ran into him.

_Time to get this over with, _I thought to myself as I eyed Jonathan's folder glumly.

I could only imagine how well _this_ was going to go down. The poor, inexperienced new girl going head-to-head with a seasoned psychologist, what could possibly go wrong? Asides from... well... _everything. _Despite being grateful for receiving the job, I still questioned Dr. Arkham's logic in giving me the assignment. Sure, I was a new face that he didn't know how to manipulate (yet), but there were about a billion and one ways that this could blow up in everyone's face- starting with my short temper and tendency to panic under pressure.

I had to give Arkham some sort of credit, though. He'd owned this place for countless of years, had been my psychologist for a small portion of that time, and had seen more than his fair share of crazies come and go. Heck he probably knew me better than I knew myself, and perhaps there was something about me that would make this insane set-up work... though whatever _that_ something was, I had yet to figure out.

_I guess there's only one way to find out._

Pulling out a clipboard from the bottom drawer, I scooped up all relevant notes and reluctantly left the sanctity of my new office.

* * *

><p>Much to my annoyance, Jonathan's cell was 5 floors above me and on the completely opposite side of the building. Not only did I get lost more times than I cared to count, but I'd eventually had to wander back to the ever-so-friendly receptionist and ask if there were any maps available. To say she was beginning to think of me as a massive waste of time and air may have just been the biggest understatement of the century.<p>

Eventually I reached a pair of double doors that were blocked by a pair of security guards, one looking about half the age of the other and more-than-probably underqualified. A bold sign above their heads that read "EAST WING" assured me that I was at least on my way to being in the right place. They silently sized me up as I dared to approach, making me wonder if _anyone _around here happened to have even an ounce of friendliness in them. At this rate I'd be spending my lunch breaks either alone or in the company of Dr. Arkham... with neither option being particularly preferable to me.

"Hi, I'm here to treat a patient"

Good old me. Stating the obvious as always.

"We got a lot of patients, ma'am," the younger one said with a hint of a grin, drawing a chuckle from his friend, "which one ya looking for?"

A small frown tugged at my eyebrows, and I resisted the urge to make a snappy comment back. Like most people, I really did not enjoy being made fun of, especially by a couple of trigger-happy guards who were coming across as increasingly arrogant by the minute. It almost made me want to pull out my degree and (quite literally) rub it into his face... not that I kept it on me... or would even have the balls to attempt such a stunt in the first place.

"Um, Jonathan Crane."

The guard's eyebrows arched and he exchanged a glance with his companion, apparently disbelieving. I didn't blame them, really. I don't think anyone would think I looked old enough- let alone experienced enough- to be treating anyone above minimum security... _especially_ not someone who had posed an infamous threat to Gotham only a handful of years ago. A part of me actually began to hope they'd refuse to let me through and I'd just have to be given another case, but of course I'm never that lucky.

"You sure about that miss?"

"Yes sir."

_Unfortunately._

"Can I see your identification?"

The older one had stepped in now, hand extended as he awaited my staff ID card. Were these guys seriously questioning me? Did they think I _wanted_ to be stuck with Jonathan? Beginning to feel like I was in the middle of an interrogation for some foul deed, I nervously pulled it out of my pocket and handed it over, watching as he ran it through a scanner. To my relief- and somewhat disappointment- the light buzzed green.

"Oh, so _you're _the new girl," he chuckled to himself, as if sharing in some secret joke, before turning to the younger gentleman beside him, "Alright boy, why don't you escort Miss. Labelle to the cell?"

"Sure thing boss."

He pressed the panel to open up the doors and politely held one side open for me, even doing a mock bow as I breezed past him. I don't know what it was about that kid- whether it was the over-confident air about him or the fact that he seemed to enjoy making fun of basically everything I did- but he was seriously starting to grind on my nerves. The doors locked with a dooming "click" behind us, leaving me alone to enjoy the pleasure of his company.

"My name's Seth," he introduced himself almost immediately, setting a casual pace down the hallway, "Seth Wintermute."

"Aubree," I smiled shyly, despite my hostile feelings towards him.

"A gorgeous name for a gorgeous lady," he purred, and I felt my cheeks beginning to warm against my better judgement, "Better watch that timidness, though. The loonies round here'll eat that shit up and spit it back in your face."

My blush quickly descended into a frown, not entirely sure I liked his use of the word "loonies" to describe the patients _or _the fact that he'd just referred to me as timid. Still, I was willing to forgive him on the premises that he probably didn't know any better, and he'd been smart enough to compliment me beforehand. That was a start. Plus I'd bet my right hand that his intention was to be helpful, not offensive. Probably.

"Thanks for the heads up," I muttered, unable to suppress the somewhat sarcastic edge in my voice.

"So what's a pretty young thing like you doing working on a guy like Crane? You graduate top of your class or something? ...Did you even graduate from high school?"

"I'm not that young," I snapped, unable to help myself. I tried to ignore the hurt glint in his eye; he was unintentionally pointing out my own insecurities, and the last thing I needed was to feel shaken up before I even stepped into the same room as Jonathan Crane. "And I didn't graduate top of anything. Dr. Arkham is a longtime friend and I, uh... kinda got conned into it."

This seemed to genuinely surprise him, which for some reason felt like a personal achievement.

"What, he blackmailed you or something?"

"Not exactly."

It was his turn to frown, but considering my real reasons would only add to his belief in my timidness, I didn't exactly feel like telling him the full story. So what? I couldn't say no to stubborn Dr. Arkham. And I might be a _bit _of a pushover. But at the end of the day a job was a job, and my bills weren't going to pay themselves. All I had to do was treat these two deranged psychopaths... no one ever said I had to be exceptional at it. Besides, I'm sure I could ask for a change if things went that terribly.

"Alright, well... we got separate rooms for treating patients at the back of the hall. I'll get Crane and meet you in the one on the right, OK?"

I nodded and proceeded towards the back of the hall, whilst Seth turned down a different hallway. Without my big, bad, and rather talkative bodyguard at my side, I suddenly became hyper-aware of the wide, crazed eyes that were peering at me through tiny windows in the doors. Some of them had their faces squashed against the glass, as if they hadn't seen a female in years and wanted to take in as much of this foreign creature as they possibly could. The whole ordeal was actually pretty unnerving. I wondered if they'd been able to hear our conversation through their doors, and felt the sudden inexplicable urge to run back to Seth... wherever he'd gone.

By the time I reached the end of that damned hallway my knuckles were white from clutching the clipboard too hard, and I had to physically force my shoulders to relax back into a natural position. The interview room itself wasn't exactly comforting, either. It had stained padded walls and a cold metal table that had been bolted to the floor (God, what kind of incidents had occurred that made that mandatory?), with a single seat on either side. Not wanting to make myself feel anymore vulnerable than I already did, I took the seat facing the doorway, and watched as Seth and Crane passed by the window soon after. As the door swung upon with a high-pitched whine, I took a deep breath and attempted to steel my resolve one last time.

_Here we go..._


End file.
